


The Poison

by impalaloompa



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, Geraskier, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Near Death Experiences, and love each other very much, scared Geralt, the boys are very soft together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:06:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23072923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impalaloompa/pseuds/impalaloompa
Summary: Geralt scrabbled around the table, throwing things aside after checking them, plates, platters, goblets, until one goblet he picked up smelled different to the rest. Strongly of wine, yes, but there was something else, something sharp that didn’t belong. He picked up more goblets, sniffing each and confirming what he was beginning to suspect. He then checked the jugs on the table until he came across the flagon Nathaniel had been using. The same sharp smell came from the wine within.“This wine,” he presented the physician with the flagon, “It’s been poisoned.”“The Lord’s personal supply?” the physician twitched, “Then why are all these others affected?”“He was sharing it around,” Geralt remembered, “He –“Geralt stopped dead. His blood ran cold.“G-Geralt?” a small voice sounded behind him.Geralt turned slowly, painfully, dread pitting his stomach.“I, uh, I drank that wine,” Jaskier paled, eyes wide, “I drank it.”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 103
Kudos: 1330





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and feedback are greatly appreciated.

The banquet hall was warm, bright from the many torches bracketed to the walls, and alive with the sounds of loud conversation, merry laughter, the clinking of cutlery, all accompanied by the continuous melodies from a lute.

At the top of the hall, the head table full of high Ladies and Lords sat raised on a dais. Two more tables ran the length of the hall and most of the guests were in their seats, stuffing their faces with fine foods and gulping from goblets.

Geralt of Rivia, the Witcher, leaned against the back wall, nursing a tankard and watching the Bard who was swaying in time with his playing, tucked away in the top corner next to the high table. 

The way that his fingers jumped about the strings, the way that the music seemed to form effortlessly, the way that his voice, even though he was just humming, carried across the hall and wove between the guests as they enjoyed their evening.

Geralt had to take a deep drink of his ale to stop himself from smiling. 

He sensed a presence next to him and let his amber eyes flick from Jaskier for a moment.

“So,” a middle-aged Lord dressed in expensive silks sidled up to him, his smile pleasant but his eyes burning with curiosity, “How does a Witcher, such as yourself, come to be attending a high Lord’s party?”

Geralt grunted, focus back on Jaskier.

“I’m with the Bard,” he grumbled.

“Oh! Oh, so you’re THAT Witcher. I see,” the Lord rubbed his stubbly chin.

Geralt quirked an eyebrow at him.

“I apologise for my forwardness. I have never met a Witcher before, and now I find myself in the presence of the most famous White Wolf,” the Lord gave a quick half-bow, eyes gleaming, “I am Lord Wentford.”

“Hm.”

“I thought a gathering like this would be tedious for one such as yourself. Wouldn’t you rather be out hunting or something? That is what Witchers do, is it not?” Wentford leaned on the wall next to him.

“I’m with the Bard,” Geralt repeated, folding his arms across his chest.

“Well I do find a lot of the talk awfully dull and the politics bores me, but the company of fine women makes up for it, don’t you agree?” Wentford winked at him.

“Hm.”

Geralt in fact, did not agree. He looked at the Bard again. Jaskier was all the company he needed.

“So, tell me Witcher,” Wentford came away from the wall so he could study Geralt’s face, not deterred by the Witcher’s disinterest in the conversation, “What great feats have you been up to lately?”

“If you shut up you might find out,” Geralt growled, tilting his head towards Jaskier who had been invited by the hosting Lord to take the floor between the tables.

Jaskier beamed as he strode confidently into place.

He waited for silence, which his prowess instantly demanded, then launched into a song about the whims of a dissatisfied Queen. Those who were familiar with the piece joined in on the chorus, those who weren’t clapped along, thoroughly delighted by the young Bard’s performance. 

This time, Geralt let himself smile. 

He could watch Jaskier play all day. He used to pretend it annoyed him, that he’d much rather be anywhere other than in the presence of the Bard when he was entertaining the crowds, especially when the songs were about him, The White Wolf.

He had accidentally let slip once, that he thought Jaskier’s newest song at the time was quite good and the look on the Bard’s face had melted his insides. His bright blue eyes, his genuine smile, it had been all Geralt could think about for days. He now took every opportunity to complement Jaskier’s work, just so that he could see that look again.

That had been where it started. For him at least. He knew Jaskier had been in love with him for a lot longer. Little comments became full-blown heart to heart conversations. Little touches became roaming hands and desperate kisses. Geralt had fallen deeply and madly in love with the Bard and he was happy. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been happy. 

They say that Witchers don’t feel emotion. That isn’t true, they just repress their emotion. It comes with the territory of brutal experiments, tough training, isolation, and years of being feared, rebuked, spat on, avoided. 

Geralt had some pretty thick walls built up when he first met Jaskier. He had tried to push the Bard away, even punching him in the gut, which he had deeply regretted the second the blow landed. He ignored or scoffed at Jaskier’s offered friendship. He was protecting himself. Letting people in made you vulnerable. And besides, he didn’t need anyone.

But the more Jaskier persisted and stuck by him, the more Geralt began to realise what his life had been missing. Slowly, the Bard took down his walls, and emotions Geralt hadn’t felt in a long, long time, filled his heart, his chest, his entire body, until he had eventually told Jaskier that he loved him.

When he heard those three words spoken back to him, he almost didn’t believe the Bard. How could anyone, especially this bright, open, charming, disaster of a human being, love a monster like him? Jaskier had reassured him, taken the time to make sure Geralt felt comfortable, safe with the idea. Always patient, always understanding. 

It had occurred to Geralt that Jaskier had never shown an ounce of fear towards him. Even in that tavern of their first meeting. The Bard had been curious, excited. He didn’t see what others saw. He didn’t see the big, scary, bloodthirsty Witcher. He saw Geralt.

There was still the possibility that he would do something to scare the Bard off, to make Jaskier see the monster and leave. Jaskier had insisted that there was nothing on the Gods' green earth that could push him away. He promised Geralt that he’d prove it.

When Jaskier had first kissed him, it was soft and tender and pure, and Geralt finally knew that this human truly, desperately loved him.

When he had first bedded the Bard, it was like nothing he had ever experienced before. Such intimacy and vulnerability, lost in the feeling of him, the way they moved together, how responsive Jaskier was to his touch. How fucking vocal Jaskier was, every noise twisting in his gut and haunting him in his dreams. Jaskier had cried out his name as he succumbed to pleasure and it was enough to tip Geralt over the edge too. He came deep inside his Bard, shaking as he collapsed on the bed beside him. He had fallen asleep in Jaskier’s arms, finally releasing that final fear. He was Jaskier’s. Jaskier was his. The Bard wasn’t going anywhere.

“He’s really good, that Bard,” Wentford sighed idly, breaking his train of thought.

“Jaskier,” Geralt grumbled.

“Bless you.”

“No, his name is Jaskier. You must have heard of him?”

“Can’t say that I have. I don’t get out much, you see, I prefer the quieter life” Wentford wrinkled his nose, “I wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t promised my wife I’d speak to Lord Nathaniel about the debt of land he owes us.”

Geralt followed Wentford’s scowl and rested on the hosting Lord, perched at the high table. 

Lord Nathaniel was a handsome man, no more than thirty, with floppy blond hair and dark blue eyes. He was bouncing about in his chair, clapping along to Jaskier’s song like an excitable child.

“Yes,” Wentford sneered, “Got quite a lot of debts does Nathaniel and he’s no good at adhering to them.”

“Hm.”

Geralt heard Lord Wentford huff, but he ignored the man and settled his gaze back on Jaskier who finished his song with a flourish, receiving amorous applause. 

Blue eyes met amber for a moment and Jaskier winked at him before staring up his next song.

Geralt felt his heart flutter as he watched Jaskier prance about the floor, animated and charming and holding the attention of everyone in the room. 

His usually neat hair was dishevelled, like it usually got after hours of indulgent playing. Geralt couldn’t stop thinking about how he was going to run his fingers through that hair, pulling at the thick locks as he made love to his Bard later on in their room at the inn, after the banquet was over and he could have Jaskier all to himself. 

Lord Nathaniel cheered loudly as Jaskier finished his song, raising his goblet to the Bard and passing his wine flagon around the high Lords and Ladies at his table.

Jaskier dipped his head to the Lord, spun in an impressive pirouette and started his next piece as he landed. 

Delight rippled through the guests and Geralt rolled his eyes. Then, he stiffened. He could sense something, smell something. Something that soured the thick scent of ale and wine, food and sweat, burning wood and ladies’ perfume. Something he couldn’t quite place, except he knew that if felt off, wrong.

He scanned the crowd of people quickly. Nothing out of the ordinary. Unease settled over him. A quick movement caught his eye, but he dismissed it. Just a serving girl leaving to refill her claret jug.

The scent dissipated and Geralt was left feeling perplexed. His heightened senses never lied. So, what had he just picked up on? 

Lord Wentford clapped enthusiastically as Jaskier bowed deeply, grin lighting up his face. 

Geralt glanced at the Lord.

“Well, I must take my leave of you Witcher,” he looked resigned, “I must catch up with the Baron of Pyrene before the scoundrel has a chance to talk to Nathaniel before I do.”

“Does the Lord owe him a debt too?” Geralt asked.

“Land. Same as me. I want to discuss the terms of our debts with the Baron to see if we can’t reach some sort of arrangement that will profit us both, but the man can be a right pig if he wants to be. No doubt he’ll try to claim a larger portion of the land if I don’t step in. So long Witcher,” the Lord drifted away and Geralt found himself looking for Jaskier again.

The Bard was perched on the edge of the high table. The Lords and Ladies were laughing at something he had said, and Lord Nathaniel was pouring him a goblet of wine from his flagon. Jaskier drained it in one, saying something which caused another ripple of laughter around the table.

Nathaniel clapped him on the back and Jaskier jumped down, striding back into the centre of the room, catching Geralt’s eye and flashing him a warm smile. Geralt’s sense of unease started to fade.

“My Lords and Ladies,” the Bard called.

The guests turned to look at him, commanding their silence once again.

“It has been my absolute pleasure performing for you all tonight. I especially want to thank our gracious Lord Nathaniel for inviting me to this wonderous event. Before the evening draws to a close and I must leave you all with the deepest sorrow in my heart, for the next hour I will be taking requests,” his blue eyes sparkled, his fingers twitching over his lute.

Several people shouted out at once and Jaskier bounced on the spot.

But before Jaskier could ask for clarification, Lord Nathaniel shot to his feet, sending his chair flying back.

Eyes snapped to him and Geralt could see that there was something very wrong. The Lord looked pale, sweaty. He was shaking, leaning on the table for support.

“I am afraid,” his voice rang out, “That I have taken ill and would like to retire for the night. I must apologise for my early departure. I feel… quite unwell.”

He turned, took a step then crumpled to the floor. Some of the guests gasped. Geralt rushed over to the Lord. Another man was by Nathaniel’s side. He bore the crest of the court physician. 

The Lord was on his knees, face screwed up in pain, clutching at his stomach.

“My Lord?” the physician tried to look into Nathaniel’s eyes.

“Oh dear,” a voice sounded from the table. Geralt looked closely at the man and could see he too was pale, sweating, “I fear I am not well either.”

Geralt’s slow heart skipped a beat. Eight, nine of the Lords and Ladies round the high table had the same ailments. A few slumped in their chairs, some sank to the floor. One tried to leave the table, but he stumbled and then vomited.

Shrieks and panic ensnared the other guests.

Geralt thought quickly.

He suddenly became aware of Jaskier by his side. 

“Geralt? What’s going on?” the Bard looked worried.

“I don’t… I think…” Geralt looked at the afflicted Lords and Ladies, then back at the rest of the guests who were backing away and praying to the gods. A thought struck him.

He turned to the physician who was quickly becoming overwhelmed by the sick Lords and Ladies.

“Could this be poison?” he growled.

The physician, a man of around fifty years with short, cropped, greying hair, and a five o’clock shadow gracing his chin, frowned.

“Aye, ‘tis very possible. They all suffer the same,” he nodded.

Geralt threw himself at the table, frantically searching for what could have poisoned these people. If he could find it and work out what the poison was, it could be cured. 

He scrabbled around the table, throwing things aside after checking them, plates, platters, goblets, until one goblet he picked up smelled different to the rest. Strongly of wine, yes, but there was something else, something sharp that didn’t belong. He picked up more goblets, sniffing each and confirming what he was beginning to suspect. He then checked the jugs on the table until he came across the flagon Nathaniel had been using. The same sharp smell came from the wine within.

“This wine,” he presented the physician with the flagon, “It’s been poisoned.”

“The Lord’s personal supply?” the physician twitched, “Then why are all these others affected?”

“He was sharing it around,” Geralt remembered, “He –“

Geralt stopped dead. His blood ran cold.

“G-Geralt?” a small voice sounded behind him.

Geralt turned slowly, painfully, dread pitting his stomach.

“I, uh, I drank that wine,” Jaskier paled, eyes wide, “I drank it.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments and feedback are greatly appreciated.

The chamber off from the banquet hall was small. A single arched window looked out onto the grounds of the estate; the tree line barely visible in the dim light of the waning moon.

Soft candlelight caused the shadows to dance across the stone walls, and the air in the chamber was cool.

Blankets and cloaks and bedding had been piled up on the flagstone, and the nine Lords and Ladies lay among them, all moaning and feverish and dying. 

Jaskier was curled up against the wall, knees drawn to his chest. He looked pale, beads of sweat forming on his brow. He hadn’t said a word since being moved into the chamber. Geralt could smell his panic and fear in the air, strong enough he can almost taste it. He was struggling to control his own rising panic as he paced the floor in front of Jaskier.

The physician was knelt next to the Bard, his medical bag retrieved from his quarters and propped open beside him. The older man offered Jaskier a small vial of clear liquid.

“It’ll slow the poison down,” the physician reassured, “Give us more time.”

Jaskier glanced up at Geralt, blue eyes swimming with uncertainty. Geralt nodded and the Bard drank the liquid.

“How much of the wine did you drink?” the physician hummed.

“About half a goblet,” Jaskier’s voiced sounded small.

The physician nodded. He stood and Geralt stopped his pacing to stand next to him.

“He didn’t drink nearly as much as the others,” he spoke softly so Jaskier couldn’t hear, “So it’s taking longer to affect him, but it’s still in his system and he is still going to die. Unless I can figure out the type of poison used and brew a cure.”

“Hm,” Geralt stared at his boots.

He himself couldn’t identify the poison, though not through lack of trying. He couldn’t identify it by smell. He had even gone as far as dipping his pinkie into the flagon and pressing a drop of the wine to his tongue. The taste told him nothing and he spat it out quickly. All he could do was rely on the expertise of the physician.

“Well you’d better get on it then,” he grumbled.

The physician inclined his head and scurried off to the back of the room where a table had been set up so he could work.

One of the Lords groaned then coughed violently, shudders passing though his weakening body.

Geralt sat in front of Jaskier. He took his hands and tried to convey comfort through the pressure of fingertips.

“We’ll cure you Jaskier,” he gruffed, “I promise.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” Jaskier snapped bitterly.

Shock rippled through Geralt and Jaskier grimaced at his own harsh words.

“Sorry,” Jaskier grit his teeth, “I – I didn’t mean…”

“It’s okay,” Geralt reached for him and brushed the pad of his thumb down Jaskier’s cheek. The Bard leaned into the touch.

Geralt felt a quiver pass through Jaskier’s body and he scooted closer so he could wrap his arms around his Bard. Jaskier let himself be pulled into Geralt’s chest, burying his head in the crook of the Witcher’s neck. Geralt rested his cheek on Jaskier’s head.

“You’re not going to die. I won’t let that happen,” he rumbled.

The door to the chamber creaked open and the face of a burly looking guard poked through.

“Um, Mr. Witcher, sir?” he stumbled.

“What?” Geralt growled, fixing the man with his burning amber glare.

The guard swallowed hard. 

“I’m sorry sir. The guests, sir, they’re… they’re causing… problems.”

“Fuck,” Geralt grunted.

“Go. It’s okay,” Jaskier mumbled into his shoulder.

Geralt pressed a firm kiss atop Jaskier’s head then rose to his feet. Jaskier slumped back against the wall.

The guard retreated quickly as Geralt stormed through the door, back into the banquet hall.

As the poisoned had been moved into the chamber, Geralt had managed to convince Lord Nathaniel’s guards to stop the guests from leaving the grand house. One of them was responsible, and when he found out who, they would meet his wrath. The guards feared him enough to do as they were told.

Geralt stopped beside the high table, face like thunder.

The guests were gathered in various groups pocketed around the hall. Their mutterances subsided when they spotted the Witcher.

“You can’t keep us here!” a man in a golden tunic stepped from his group, hands on his hips and fury in his eyes.

Geralt narrowed his eyes at him.

“I am Caradon Vale, fifth Baron of Pyrene and I demand – “

“I don’t care who you are. No one leaves,” Geralt snarled, “Your Lord has been poisoned. My Bard has been poisoned, and no one is going anywhere until I find out by who.”

“You can’t think that one of us –?” the Baron protested.

“That’s exactly what I think so sit down and shut the fuck up fifth Baron of wherever the fuck you hale from. If Jaskier dies…” he didn’t finish his sentence. He didn’t have to. The faces of everyone in the room told him they understood perfectly.

Caradon Vale folded his arms across his chest but kept quiet.

“Anyone else have something to say?” Geralt glowered at the guests.

No one spoke up.

“Hm,” Geralt grunted.

He let his amber eyes flick over the crowd until he picked out Lord Wentford. The Lord was perched on a stool, averting his gaze and pretending to be interested in the buttons of his doublet.

Lord Nathaniel owed him a debt. Apparently, this Baron of Pyrene was owed a debt too. Geralt wondered how many others in the room hadn’t been paid back yet, and which of them would stoop to the petty revenge of poisoning Nathaniel? He ruled out Lord Wentford. The man didn’t strike him as a murder. Socially inept maybe, but not a murder. The Baron on the other hand could be capable of letting his hand slip over Lord Nathaniel’s flagon.

Then a thought struck him. It didn’t make sense for Nathaniel to be poisoned over an unpaid debt. The one owed would then never be paid. Some other grievance against him then? But what? What had the Lord done to warrant someone trying to take his life?

Lost in thought, he hadn’t noticed the guard from before approaching him.

“Sir?”

Geralt jumped, stopping himself from punching the guard just in time.

“What?” the Witcher narrowed his eyes at him.

“The physician has asked for you.”

Geralt hurried back to the chamber, heart in his throat.

As he entered, his eyes immediately landed on Jaskier. The Bard was pressed against the wall, rigid, eyes wide.

Geralt’s gaze flicked to where Jaskier was looking and his blood ran cold.

Lord Nathaniel was convulsing, spittle bubbling on his lips. The physician was doing his best to contain the Lord’s flailing limbs.

“Witcher!” he gasped, noticing Geralt’s presence, “Help me hold him.” 

Geralt placed his strong hands on the Lord’s shoulders, pressing him into the bedding underneath him. Nathaniel’s eyes rolled, hair plastered to his forehead. 

Eventually the Lord stilled, and the physician leant back, panting.

“He wont last much longer,” he kneaded his brow with his knuckles.

“Do you know what the poison is yet?” Geralt eyed him.

“No. But I’ve ruled out mushrooms and other plant-based poisons. I hope to the gods it isn’t man-made, because it will be significantly harder to cure.”

Geralt fisted his hands, glancing back at Jaskier.

The Bard was shaking, fever setting in now. Geralt could hear his breath rattling in his chest.

“Keep trying,” he growled at the physician, moving over next to Jaskier again.

He pulled Jaskier into his lap, cocooning him in his arms and holding him gently.

Jaskier whimpered, hands clawing at Geralt’s sleeve for support. The unnatural heat rolled off him in waves. Geralt helped him to remove his doublet so that he was just in his undershirt, then brought him close again. 

Jaskier’s entire body was tense and tremors shuddered through him.

This couldn’t be how it ended. This couldn’t be how Jaskier died. The Bard had survived encounters with Wraiths, Drowners, Vampires, all manner of monsters and beasts, even a Djinn for crying out loud. Poison was just so… unfair.

Geralt wanted to scream and shout in the unfairness of it all. Unfair that after finally embracing his feelings for Jaskier he was going to lose him just like that. Unfair that he had ignored every element of his training to let the Bard in and be happy for it only to end up hurting him more that he ever thought it possibly could. Unfair that the man he loved was dying in his arms and there was nothing he could do about it. Yes, he wanted to scream and shout and rage and roar. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. For Jaskier’s sake. He had to keep it together, keep strong. For Jaskier. 

The Bard was frightened, unsure, hurting, and if he knew Geralt was feeling the same, any hope Jaskier clung to would vanish. Geralt wouldn’t do that to him. He couldn’t. Instead he kept stoically silent as he ran his fingers through Jaskier’s hair, listening to the rapid patter of the Bard’s heart and the slowing of his breathing as he drifted into sleep.

Geralt stayed awake for the rest of the night, holding his Bard gently and keeping all his senses alert for any signs of change. 

As Jaskier slept, the overwhelming stench of fear started to fade and Geralt breathed in his comforting scent of orange blossom and woodsmoke, ink and fresh parchment.

He was half aware of the physician who had fallen asleep at his table, snoring softly. Geralt reminded himself to thank the older man in the morning for his hard work.

When the light of dawn spilled though the window, bathing the room in gold, the physician stirred, rubbed his face with his hands, and got back to work.

Geralt shifted slightly, trying not to wake Jaskier as he tried to stretch the stiffness out of his muscles. 

Then he froze. Jaskier was deathly pale and Geralt could barely pick out his heartbeat. 

“Jaskier?” he shook the Bard as he laid him on the blanketed floor.

The physician turned, alerted by the noise.

“Jaskier!” Geralt growled, crouched over him, gripping his shoulders.

Jaskier took a sharp breath eyes fluttering open. His heart quickened in his chest and Geralt let out a sigh of relief. 

“Thank the gods,” the physician mumbled, rising to check on the other patients.

Geralt supported Jaskier as he tried to sit up and pressed and soft, desperate kiss to Jaskier’s lips. One hand cupped the Bard’s face, the other found hold on the back of his neck, drawing him in.

Jaskier returned the kiss weekly, hum rising in his chest.

“Geralt,” he breathed into the Witcher’s mouth.

“Shh,” Geralt brushed a lock of sweat soaked hair from Jaskier’s forehead, “I love you so much.”

Jaskier smiled, the dullness in his blue eyes flickering slightly.

“I love you too,” he whispered.

Before Geralt could kiss him again, a noise behind him had him lurching round.

Lord Nathaniel was coughing, choking. On his own blood. His body jerked. His limbs shook. The physician could only watch as the young Lord faded, until he finally died.

“Shit,” the physician cursed.

“Oh gods,” Jaskier rasped.

Geralt swallowed hard, tears pricking at his eyes. He gathered Jaskier in his arms again, the only thing he could do, and held him as he cried. The broken noises coming from the Bard were like daggers through his heart.

“You’re not going to die,” the Witcher grumbled, “Do you hear me?”

The physician covered Lord Nathaniel with a blanket then returned to his table.

“I don’t know what it is. I don’t fucking know!” he shouted at the notes and tumblers strewn across the table.

“You’ll work it out,” Geralt blinked at him.

The older man rubbed his face in his hands.

The door to the chamber creaked open again and a serving girl stepped through. She carried a tray with tankards of weak ale and a plate of sweet breads.

“Breakfast, my Lords,” she dipped her head politely. Then her professional demeaner faltered as she took in the sick Lords and Ladies, Jaskier still cradled to Geralt’s chest, the covered body on the floor. 

Geralt went rigid. That smell. It was the same from the night before. The one he hadn’t been able to place. It was fear and panic and gilt. It wove around her like a thick fog.

The serving girl noticed the look on his face. She dropped the tray and ran.

Geralt scrambled to his feet, being careful to not hurt Jaskier in the process and bolted after her. 

She was fast, but not faster than the Witcher and he was closing the gap between them. She ran down the banquet hall, shock and confusion rising from the sleepy guests who were just starting to think about breakfast themselves. Geralt tore after her, cursing when one of the Ladies got in his way. He spun her to the side with more force than he meant to, and she crashed into a table. He grunted an apology. 

The serving girl forced her way past the guards at the door who hesitated in their bewilderment and Geralt barged past them, sending them both flying. This time, apology was the furthest thing from his mind. 

They raced down the hall, Geralt gaining ground again and as he closed the gap, he reached out to grab her arm – 

– only for her to slip through his fingers as she darted down another corridor. Geralt skid to a halt, turning sharply and throwing himself after her. 

She stumbled as she reached the door at the end of the corridor and tugged at the door handle hysterically.

It was locked.

She turned to him, fear blazing in her brown eyes, the rapid rise and fall of her chest, as she pressed herself against the door.

“It was you,” Geralt thundered, stalking up to her.

“I didn’t mean for the others to get hurt!” she wailed, “It was only supposed to be Lord Nathaniel.”

“What poison?” he growled. 

“How was I supposed to know he was going to share his wine?” the girl stammered, fear pushing her towards delirium, “He wasn’t meant to share it! He was meant to drink it all to himself!”

“What was the poison?” Geralt towered over her.

“He deserved it. He left her! Our baby! Left her in the woods! After he promised she’d go to a good home. He just left her!” she was hyperventilating. 

Geralt grabbed her wrists and shook her.

“THE POISON,” he roared in her face, “TELL ME NOW!”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she wept.

Geralt slapped her, enough to snap her head to one side.

She squeaked, struggling in his grip.

“Just kill me already if you’re going to do it!” she shrieked.

“I don’t care why you did it,” Geralt forced calm, “I just need to know how to cure it.”

“Lord Nathaniel is dead? He was the one under the sheet?”

Geralt nodded.

The serving girl took a deep breath.

“Basilisk venom,” she said.

Geralt let her go and sprinted back to the banquet hall. He paused long enough to tell the guards to let all the guests go then raced up towards the high table and to the door to the chamber. 

He burst through, breathing hard.

“I know what the poison is, and I know how to cure it,” he bellowed.

He stopped dead. Four more Lords and Ladies had blankets covering them. Then his heart skipped a beat and his stomach plummeted.

The physician was leaning over Jaskier as he thrashed and cried out.

“Jaskier!” Geralt was by his side in an instant.

“Geralt, Geralt it hurts,” the Bard wailed. 

“Here, drink,” the physician tried, holding a bottle close to Jaskier’s cracked lips, “It will help with the pain.”

Geralt’s hand found Jaskier’s and he squeezed tightly.

“Come on son,” the physician pressed the lip of the bottle to Jaskier’s mouth.

Jaskier swallowed a mouthful before another spasm of pain seized him, and the rest of the bottle’s contents spilled down his chin.

“Please,” Jaskier sobbed, “Make it stop.”

Geralt rubbed circles into Jaskier’s burning skin with his thumb, fingers still tightly twined together.

As what little of the potion he drank kicked in and the pain began to ebb, Jaskier collapsed back, breathing hard and trembling with exhaustion. 

Geralt swallowed the bile rising in his throat.

The physician let out the breath he had been holding and stood, leaving Geralt with Jaskier.

“Geralt,” the Bard rasped.

“I’m here,” Geralt cupped Jaskier’s face.

“Please don’t leave me,” Jaskier begged.

Geralt blinked back the tears forming in his eyes. 

He knew what the poison was. He knew how to cure it. But that meant leaving to search the woods for a very specific plant. That meant leaving Jaskier behind. 

He felt his heart tare in half.

If he left and Jaskier died, he would never forgive himself. But if he didn’t go and find the cure, Jaskier would die anyway.

For the first time in a long time, Geralt didn’t know what to do.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments and feedback are greatly appreciated.

Geralt’s heart thrummed in time with the thundering hoof beats as he nudged his mare faster still.

Roach could sense his urgency, his fear, and she pushed on for him, flanks heaving, eyes bulging, nostrils dilated. 

Trees cocooned them on both sides as they raced along the road, deeper into the forest. The mid-day sun filtered through the canopy of leaves, creating golden pools on the ground.

Geralt was not a religious man, but as he clung to Roach, he prayed to any god who was listening that he would get back to Jaskier in time.

The look on the Bard’s face when he had left him burned behind his eyes and a tight knot had formed in his gut. He had to succeed. There was no other option.

He pulled Roach up short as they came to a bridge over a fast running stream. Geralt turned her upstream, stepping off the road and into the dense ferns lining the stream’s banks.

Roach was blowing hard through her nose as she followed Geralt’s direction, glad of the slower pace. 

They followed the stream for almost four miles until Geralt spotted what he was looking for. He dismounted his chestnut mare, leaving her by the waters edge, and crouching by the moss-covered rocks jutting out between the trees.

He scratched at the moss with his thumbnail. It crumbled away as if all the moisture had been sucked out of it. Good. 

He looked around at the other plants nearby the rock. They all looked parched, which made no sense, as they were right next to fresh water. Except, it made complete sense.

The plant Geralt was looking for had rare magical properties and for it to grow and flourish, it required the energy of life around it. The balance of Chaos even in nature.

The Witcher moved round the rocks until he spotted it. A plume of thick, waxy auburn leaves that smelled strongly of honey, growing flush against the stone. The gods were on his side today.

He went to gather a few of the leaves, relief trembling in his fingers when he stopped. 

There were odd black spots staining the auburn and all the leaves had holes in them, as if someone had forced an arrow shaft through each one. 

Geralt dropped to his knees, arms coming down heavily at his sides. Of course the exact plant he was looking for had been attacked by a parasite. Of course all the leaves were spoiled and useless now.

Tears burned in his eyes and he slammed his fists on the rock.

“Fuck!” he screamed.

He didn’t have time to look for another one. Gods knew how long that would take. Jaskier was dying. Jaskier was dying and he didn’t have time. He didn’t have time. He didn’t – 

He scratched at the earth by base of the plant. The mud came away easily and he dug a bit more. He was remembering something.

Carefully, he eased the plant out of the earth, its thin roots showering down dust and debris. 

He brushed the bulb with his hand, heart clenching in his chest.

It was about the size of a head of garlic, and similar in appearance. He snapped the stalk off, throwing the leafy plant over his shoulder, and sniffed the bulb.

Tangy, sharp, but unspoiled. 

“This will work,” he breathed, scrambling to his feet. 

He tore the roots off and stuffed the bulb into his pocket. Then he flew back to Roach.

“It’ll work,” he told her, jumping up onto her back, stomach fluttering.

He maneuvered her round and back down stream. As soon as they were on the road again, he spurred her on, pushing her as fast as she could take. 

He made a mental note to reward her hugely when they made it back and saved Jaskier’s life.

They were going to save Jaskier’s life. He had the cure. He was so close.

The grand house loomed over them as they emerged from the forest. The sun was sinking slowly behind it, casting long shadows as Geralt leaped off Roach, leaving the stable hand to hurry over and take her, and marched into the house.

“Mr. Geralt, sir,” one of the guards greeted him, opening the door to the banquet hall.

Geralt faltered as he stepped inside.

The hall was empty, apart from a small group of the Lord’s court gathered round the high table, and the line of blanket covered bodies down the middle. There were eight now in total. After scanning the bodies quickly Geralt sucked in a breath of relief. Five Lords and three Ladies. That left one Lady, and Jaskier.

As he approached the high table, he could hear snippets of the court’s conversation.

“Yes, but Nathaniel is dead.”

“The estate will go into ruins.”

“All that debt. We did warn him.”

“Who will run the estate now? His uncle?”

“It will have to be. He’s the only one with a claim.” 

“Who poisoned him anyway?”

Geralt kept his head down as he passed. 

“Witcher,” one of the court members called.

Geralt grumbled as he stopped.

“Got any idea who could have done this?” the middle-aged man narrowed his eyes at him.

Geralt found himself saying, “No.”

The man sighed then went back to discussing the future of the estate.

Geralt swallowed the strange feeling tightening his throat and went into the chamber off the hall.

“You’re back!” the physician bundled up to him.

“Boil this,” Geralt handed him the bulb, “in a pot with the poisoned wine until it turns brown.”

The physician took the bulb, nodding quickly and set to work.

Geralt stole a breath, then forced himself to look in the corner where he had left Jaskier.

The Bard was laid out on the blankets carpeting the flagstone. He was drenched with sweat. But he was alive. The serving girl was mopping his brow with a cool cloth.

Geralt growled at her, a deep rage rising in his core.

“Get away from him,” he snarled at her.

She jumped back, dropping the cloth, her eyes full of fear.

“I’m sorry,” she whined, “I’m so sorry. I just wanted to help.”

“You’ve done enough,” Geralt knelt next to Jaskier and took his hand.

Jaskier blinked in confusion until his eyes focused on Geralt’s face and a small smile tugged at his chapped lips.

“I’m sorry Jaskier,” Geralt cupped the Bard’s face gently, trying not to balk at the heat emitting from his pale skin, “if you had died whilst I way away – “

“I would have come back to haunt you, you bastard,” Jaskier’s voice was reedy with pain and the mischief that sparkled in his blue eyes disappeared as quickly as it formed. 

“It’s going to be okay. I got the cure. The physician is sorting it now. Just… just hold on a bit longer,” the Witcher’s gruff voice broke.

Jaskier squeezed his hand and Geralt let all the panic and fear and tension roll out of him as he slumped forward and rested his head on Jaskier’s chest. He felt trembling fingers twine with his hair, and he gulped back the tears threatening to rip him open.

“Geralt,” Jaskier rasped.

Geralt lifted his head to look at him.

“Can you just... hold me? Please?”

The Witcher tucked his arms carefully around his Bard lifting him into his lap and cradling him to his chest.

He shuffled until his back hit the wall then settled. Jaskier’s breath tickled his neck and he pressed a firm kiss to Jaskier’s temple.

“When we get out of here, I’m going to learn how to dance. So I can take you dancing,” Geralt mumbled into his hair.

A laugh shook Jaskier that ended in a choked cough. 

“Dancing?” he rasped, “That’ll be the day.”

“Hm,” Geralt grumbled, tuning into the Bard’s quivering heartbeat.

Jaskier coughed again and tensed as pain lanced through him, his face screwed up in a grimace. 

Geralt rocked him slightly, trying to ease him through the worst of it.

He let his gaze flick to the serving girl. She was busying herself with the Lady who was still bundled up on the blankets at the far side of the room.

He couldn’t help but watch as she dabbed at the Lady’s brow, whispering comfort and reassurance. He could practically taste the guilt seeping from her.

She hadn’t meant for this to happen. But it had. She became aware of his amber glare and quickly looked away from him again.

“What’s going to happen to me?” she mumbled.

“I haven’t told anyone it was you,” he growled. 

“Why?” her shock forcing her to look at him.

“Because Jaskier is still alive,” Geralt looked at the Bard who had his eyes closed, cheek pressed against his chest.

“If he dies...?” her voice was barely audible.

“Then I’ll kill you myself.”

She paled with terror but, to his surprise, didn’t run. She put her attention back on the Lady. Geralt almost felt respect for her. Almost.

He felt Jaskier shift as another bought of painful coughing shook him. He could practically feel his life ebbing and willed the physician to hurry up.

“Geralt,” Jaskier tucked his fingers into Geralt’s lapel.

“Shh,” the Witcher placed a hand over the Bards.

"What do you think it's like? Dying?"

"You are not going to die," Geralt growled.

Jaskier was quiet for a moment.

“I’m not scared,” Jaskier's voice broke, “I’m not scared, I’m not scared, I'm not scared, I’m – I’m not –“ 

Tears leaked down his face.

Geralt’s heart splintered. He couldn’t bare it. The utter helplessness. The pain tightening his chest as he held his lover in his arms knowing there was nothing more he could do. Knowing that, despite the cure being made right in the same room, Jaskier still might die. The Bard was growing weaker by the second, he wasn’t going to last much longer.

“I love you Jaskier. You have been the light in my life when all else was darkness. I cant even begin to find the words to tell you how grateful I am and how special you are and – “ he swallowed hard, “I can’t lose you.”

Jaskier made a noise that started low in his chest then erupted into another attack of coughing. His body seized; his eyes tight shut with pain. He rasped between sharp inhales and wretched, blood spilling from his lips.

“Jaskier!” Geralt screamed.

The physician looked over.

“Just a few more moments, I’m almost done,” he stammered.

Jaskier settled back in Geralt’s arms, no longer convulsing but blood dribbled down his chin and bubbled on his lips. His breathing was sharp and shallow, sounding wet and gurgling as he drowned in his own blood.

“Hurry up,” Geralt screeched at the Physician, carefully lying Jaskier on his back and titling his head to one side to help the blood drain out.

“Just hang on Jaskier, please,” he wailed.

The Bard spluttered and choked again, more blood trickling out of his mouth. His blue eyes brimmed with fear and Geralt took both his hands.

“Hang on Jaskier,” Geralt begged him.

Jaskier’s breath rattled in his chest as he tried to say something.

“Shh, shh, save your strength,” Geralt stroked his cheek.

Jaskier’s head lolled back, eyes fluttering shut.

“No, no, no, no,” Geralt groaned. 

The physician was by his side, the pot of brown liquid sloshing as he placed it down. He dipped a cup into it and brought it to Jaskier’s lips.

“Tilt his head back,” the physician ordered. 

Geralt obeyed, fear and panic numbing him. He placed one hand on Jaskier’s forehead and pushed gently.

Jaskier’s mouth fell open slightly and the physician slowly poured the liquid down his throat, rubbing Jaskier’s Adams apple to encourage him to swallow.

When the cup was empty, the physician sat back. Geralt cupped Jaskier’s face with both hands.

“Jaskier?” he hummed.

The seconds stretched to minutes and there was still no response.

This couldn’t be happening. 

This couldn’t be…

They had done it. They had given him the cure. It couldn’t be too late. To have hope only for it to be snatched away again.

“Jaskier?” Geralt shook him gently.

The Bard convulsed. Eyes snapping open, arching his back as he inhaled a huge breath. 

“Jaskier!” Geralt caught him before he flumped back down and pulled him into a tight embrace. 

He buried his face in the crook of Jaskier’s neck and cried, the strong thrumming of Jaskier’s heartbeat in his ear. He felt the Bard’s arms curl around him, and he laughed breathlessly into Jaskier’s shoulder.

The physician rose to tend to the Lady.

"Thank you," Geralt blinked at him.

The physician nodded and crouched next to the serving girl who was already preparing the Lady for the cure.

“Oh thank the gods,” Geralt pulled back so he could look into Jaskier’s eyes. Those beautiful blue eyes that were dull and pained before, now bright with life and relief. 

Jaskier surged forwards and captured Geralt’s lips with his own. His hands coming up to hold the Witcher’s face as he melted against him.

Geralt looped his arms around Jaskier’s waist, keeping him close as their mouths moved together, conveying love and relief and joy.

Eventually Jaskier pulled back, letting his head fall against Geralt’s shoulder, shudders passing though him.

“Shit,” the Bard mumbled, “That was too close.”

Geralt hummed in agreement, carding his fingers through Jaskier’s soft hair, a deep aching happiness rippling through him.

“I thought I’d lost you,” he grumbled.

“For a moment there, I think you did,” Jaskier said quietly, his voice quivering.

Geralt just held him. Lost himself in him. 

Jaskier was alive.

Those three words meant more to him that he had ever imagined. He didn’t know what he would have done if he had lost the Bard. But he knew what he was going to do now.  
He was going to spend every single moment enjoying Jaskier, loving him, being loved by him, never taking him for granted ever again. He was going to show Jaskier how much he meant to him every single day for the rest of his long life.

“I love you,” he rumbled.

He felt Jaskier smile into his shoulder.

“I love you too.”


End file.
